Dichotomy
by Blissful Anonymity
Summary: You never fully understand something unless you've felt its opposite. To know love, you must know hate. To appreciate happiness, you need to have had tasted sadness. And to know how important trust is, try having someone cheat on you. See how it feels. But I brought it upon myself. Every single bit. A/U KagomeXAnyone
1. Chapter 1

You never fully understand something unless you've felt its opposite. To know love, you must know hate. To appreciate happiness, you need to have had tasted sadness. And to know how important trust is, try having someone cheat on you. See how it feels. But I brought it upon myself. Every single bit.

But we're not there yet. Not even close. It all started in middle school, eighth grade. A student had transferred to our school late, and the only locker available for him was next to mine, alphabetical order be damned for once. And I hated him. Of course his locker had to be to the left of mine, so that when it opened it would cover mine nearly completely. And when particularly frisky, he'd trap my hand in the gap by the wrist.

It didn't take him long to learn my locker's combination. I would get occasional mystery presents, a pair of drumsticks here, and pearl bracelet there. Suddenly he knew when my birthday was, something I was rather secretive about. He would follow me to band practice, and duck into the nearby gym locker room when I'd notice him.

It was clearly a case of puppy love on his end, and it started leeching into my side as well. Gradually, we became friends. I learned where the presents had come from, why all these little notes were popping up. I began to write back. We met up at a school dance and actually danced together, something of a declaration of love back then.

High school happened. By this time we were crushing on each other hard. He joined band to be with me, same section even. I'd be breaking drum heads, he'd be cracking cymbals. We gave it our all. We'd sit together on the bus when going to play for away games. And we'd put the other band to shame.

Then he got a girlfriend. It started out as a bad case of high school drama. I had gone on a pity date, and the word got around that I was taken. So my real crush gave up on me then and there, and found someone else. My adolescent heart was broken.

Somehow we remained friends, despite my devastation. And he went through three more girlfriends by the end of high school. I barely dated, only going to a few of the many school dances. But this time we didn't dance together. I refused him.


	2. Chapter 2

We didn't talk after I graduated. He stayed in high school as a left-back, I went to college. I started running with a different crowd there and got myself my first boyfriend. Older, wiser, and much more experienced, he'd push me for things I wasn't willing to give. Always one step further, nothing was good enough. He was controlling, always putting me down, and towards the end shoved me, hard. I walked away from him after that.

But the damage was done. I had gotten a taste of an abusive relationship, and thought I was to blame. I wanted to erase my ex from my memory, and so I went farther with other guys, each one a little more than the last. And then I met someone new. We'd see each other nearly every day at work, exchanging pleasantries and helping each other out. We became best friends, talking at night in chat rooms just for us, occasionally sneaking in a video here and there.

He asked me out. I said yes. And was once again in another controlling, abusive relationship. He had been cheated on in his prior relationships, and was broken because of it. So slowly I gave up my friends, only seeing them at school or work, because he'd get upset if I saw anyone but him. I had to stop hugging people in front of him, because he'd get so jealous if he saw it. I hit rock bottom, and in my desperation, turned to the one person who I had lost to time.

I found him easily through mutual high school friends. We started talking, catching up on what had happened after he graduated, and all about could-have-beens and what-ifs. The regret was stifling. He was supposed to be so many things. He should have been my first kiss, my first boyfriend, my first everything. Those chances had all slipped away, and I had watched them pass by. But I was tired of getting passed by, and I took that opportunity and did something unforgivable with it.

I cheated. In an abandoned stairwell, with my chest pressed to his face and his tongue tasting me, with my mouth on his and teeth biting, with my legs spread apart and his head between my thighs, with his girth in my mouth and his hand on my head. But I was too caught up in finally getting what I wanted all those years ago. I got my first. I got many firsts. No one had ever seen, much less touched, much less tasted any of my secret areas before that day. And it was all with him.

My conscious kicked in the next day after the euphoric high had dissipated. I had cheated. I had betrayed my boyfriend for another, no matter how special he was, that shouldn't have been any factor in it. I never, ever should have done anything like that, no excuses. But I went back to life as usual with all this eating at me inside, poisoning my mind every time I looked at my boyfriend.

Before long, I couldn't hold it in anymore and the truth came tumbling out in a big, sobbing mess. Understandably, he left me. I deserved it. But it wasn't what I wanted. I couldn't imagine life without him, so I did everything in my power to get him back. I completely stopped touching other people, and I discontinued all communication with who I had cheated with. Eventually, we were back together, but under new rules. I listened to everything he said, and never went against him.

Then I needed him desperately. I was being abused at home, being hit, getting screamed at, and I couldn't take it anymore. I ran away, straight into his apartment. I lost my virginity the next day on a bare mattress, entered from behind, thinking I had to repay him for saving me. If he had been able to see my face, he never would have done it.

From then on, life was a masquerade. I'd blindly follow whatever he wanted, trying to make him happy with every fibre of my being, still feeling horrible from cheating on him. We'd go to work, come back, and it fell into a pattern. He wouldn't shower unless I came in with him. He wouldn't sleep unless I was next him. He got jealous of the games on my computer. I stopped playing them. Sex became routine and I learned to fake an orgasm. He refused to wear a condom, and expected me to accept that. He stopped taking care of his hygiene entirely. I stopped eating.

By this time my parents were trying to get me home, promising no more abuse. And since I was dangerously sick from malnourishment, and growing more and more a shadow of myself, I jumped at the chance. I still visited my boyfriend every week, still abiding by his rules of not seeing anyone but him, ever. All this time I was deluding myself that this was normal, I deserved it, this is what needs to be done because I was bad.

And then everything changed. The apartment was hot that day, no air conditioning and at the pinnacle of summer, so we abandoned all clothes right away. He laid on top of me, and I felt him grow erect against my thigh. I said no. He kissed me, and painfully entered me anyways. I screamed against his mouth. He slid out, but the damage was done. I cried, curled up into a ball with him at my back, while he told me how he'd always listen to me, how he could never rape me. As if that wasn't what he had just done.

I started to realize how bad of a situation I was in after that incident. I had no way of coping, no support group, because I had gotten rid of all my friends. I became withdrawn and cautious around him. And then I grew a spine. The one thing I wanted to cheer me up was a haircut. Nice and short and liberating. He told me no. I was not allowed to do anything to my body that he did not approve of. I would not let it go, and he broke up with me because of it.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing I did was try to contact the one person who I had sworn to never talk to again as long as I lived. I e-mailed him, and he responded. I poured out everything that had happened since the day I cut him out of my life for my then-boyfriend. We agreed to meet up. I met him at a restaurant and he just held me in the lobby for nearly ten minutes. I could feel my soul healing.

In the months to follow, I gradually got all my old friends back, minus a few who my ex managed to turn against me. My long lost love had let me back fully into his life, and we were closer than ever. I learned that his relationship wasn't happy and that he still loved me. I had never stopped loving him, and about a month after breaking up with his girlfriend, we were an item.

Times were hard at first. Neither of us had a car, and couldn't really see each other often, so each time we managed to get together it was magical. Everything was amazing with him. We had so much back story, and we understood each other so well.

Sex started to be something more to me. It wasn't a chore anymore, it was the ultimate show of love and vulnerability. However, we didn't get to do it as often as we liked. As often as he liked. And his attention strayed elsewhere. Three months into our relationship, he visited his ex and had her give him a blowjob. The next day, he fucked her.

But I understood. I was paying for my own mistakes with my ex. I deserved this. I finally knew what it felt to be on the receiving end of infidelity. And I chalked it up to karma and moved on.

The next three months passed. He got a car, so we were able to see each other more often. We went to the movies, he came to my college, we went to a number of parks. Life was amazing.

He went on a trip with some of the guys. They were going canoeing and hanging out up north. I missed him dearly. On the drive back, they all went to a strip club and he ended up getting one of the back room 'services' from one of the staff there. She went down on him, and for once his body reacted accordingly. But he still let her service a limp dick for nearly ten minutes. The day he told me, I had dressed up in matching lingerie with the intent to properly christen his car. I was heartbroken when he told me he was unfaithful yet again.

Once again I told myself it was all because I had cheated, and this was repaying me for my mistakes. But this time it had consequences. I had no idea what sort of diseases that stripper was harboring in her mouth, so I refused to have any sexual relations with him until he took a blood test. I didn't kiss him for a month after. He didn't get tested for eleven. I remember crying in a friend's arms, wondering why he waited so long. Why didn't he want me? Why did it take nearly a year before he wanted to have me again? I still don't know why to this day.

The day after he got a clean bill of health, we tried to have sex again. He wouldn't fit. I was desperate to have him back in my life, back in me, and I told him to force it in. The sex was dry and painful, but it was mine again.

Life got easier. He remained faithful to me, as far as I knew. But there was always that nagging feeling in the back of my head that I wasn't good enough, that I wasn't woman enough to keep my man from straying. I became broken and paranoid. And I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, the straw that would break my back.


	4. Chapter 4

In the meantime, he got an apartment. We were able to make love in a bed, as opposed to the back seat of his car. It was heavenly. He learned about my kinks, and not only accepted them, he embraced the lifestyle as well. He was my Master. I was his Pet. We completed each other.

We'd take showers together, wash each other's backs. Do other pleasurable things under the running water until it grew cold. Then he'd brush my hair and sometimes braid it. And maybe we'd catch a nap together afterwards, me spooned from behind, or pillowed by his shoulder, or sprawled across his stomach.

He'd play video games with me in his lap, absently stroking my hair in between sessions. I would try my hardest to get him to pay attention during it all, chewing on his shirt and burying my face violently into his belly. That would earn me a couple swats, which would degenerate into an impromptu wrestling match. He always won.

We'd talk about life together like it was the next natural progression, like where we'd live, what kind of house we'd have, where we'd go for our honeymoon. He'd joke about me burning down the kitchen. I'd talk about christening different surfaces of the house with him.

It wasn't all fun and games, though. We'd fight every so often over various topics. He was a drinker, I was paranoid of alcohol. He wanted kids, I hated them. He wanted us to move faster, I wanted to get my degree first. He wanted us to live together, I wanted to be married first. But after each spat we always came back together, even if the solution was to not talk about it anymore and leave it to when we actually crossed that bridge.

And then the shoe finally dropped. I logged onto FaceBook one day, and was greeted by the sight of two girls kissing him as his profile picture. It felt like I had been stabbed. Kissing was by far the most intimate of gestures to me, and here he was indulging in two other girls.

We fought for hours. He saw nothing wrong with it and refused to take into account how I felt. He had promised me he wouldn't mess around, not even the tiniest bit with other girls after the last time he cheated. And he had just broken that promise, publicly humiliating me in the process. Friends saw it and were asking if we were still together. I wanted to die.

I walked away from him three days later. He'd never understand what he did to me. He'd never know how broken I was inside. He was supposed to be my end game, my final goal in life. He was my dream, and I let him go. I couldn't keep him in my life like that.

And my health started failing. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and it took its toll on my body. I lost ten pounds the first week after the break up. As a last resort, I brought him back into my life as a friend, and the anxiety abated a little. But I was using him, and it was a complete farce.

Then one night, everything came out on the table. It started out innocent enough, a serious conversation. But it quickly morphed into an all-out fight on my end. I was saying things, horrendous lies, anything to try to get him to feel how betrayed I was. I fought dirty, and aimed to destroy. And bless the bastard, he saw through all of it. But not enough to say anything for the position he put me in.

He never once apologized. Not for anything. My feelings, my heartbreak were all just unimportant. Maybe we could have fixed it if he had. Maybe I would have swallowed enough of my pride to let him back in. But when two stubborn people such as ourselves butt heads, the consequences aren't anything to trifle with.

And so I was left with these pieces. When someone becomes an integral part of your life like that, and then gets suddenly cut out, it makes you reevaluate everything you are. I was in a bad way, and it made me my own worst enemy. I finally understood what it was like to be broken.

Even at your lowest, life has a funny way of proving you wrong, and showing just how bad a situation can actually get. Because life wasn't just about my issues anymore. Today I found out I was pregnant.


	5. Chapter 5

I still can't believe it. We were always so careful when we were together. I trusted him implicitly with the birth control, and he was always so good about wearing a condom. Just one time did I feel him inside me with no barriers. He was cautious, I was desperate. We were hundreds of miles from home, pulled over on the side of the road on some farm, frantically loving in the back seat. Nothing came of that incident, though.

We must have ruptured the condom somehow the last time we had sex. It's no wonder we did. It was rough, overpowering, and forceful, just how I always liked it. I was taken hard against the wall, shirt only half unbuttoned, pants around my ankles, panties at my knees. He was my Master that night, and I loved it.

And we never would have known the condom broke, not towards the end. Not caught up in our passion as far as we were. And if anything leaked, well that was easily dismissed. I was always dripping wet for him, no matter what. And sex was messy to the point of having to put a towel under me. Any extra liquid dripping down my thighs wouldn't have been noticed by either party.

But something I couldn't ignore was the symptoms. I was nauseous at the drop of a hat. Brushing my teeth was a nightmare. The mint taste I always liked was making me sick to the point of having to change it for a kid's bubble gum flavor. I couldn't stand anything more than light toast and juice in the mornings, a super tiny lunch, and I'd usually skip dinner entirely. Even the smell of rain was unsettling to me anymore.

I started eating cheeseburgers, and loving them. I even ate pizza, something I had been waging war on for years. Anything red meat was suddenly the best thing ever. I had always hated water, but here I was sucking it down like my life depended on it.

The reality check happened when I found blood in my panties. I naturally assumed I was going to be starting my period, so I planned accordingly. When it never came I grew anxious, and assumed the worst.

I was not new to having pregnancy scares. I'd had one scare before, with my ex that had refused to wear condoms. Looking back on it, his reasoning for it was laughable, and I never should have allowed myself to endanger myself like that. He'd gotten it into his head that he should wear extra-large condoms, and could never understand why they'd always slip off. Him going soft half of the time was one of the obvious causes, along with the fact that he didn't even manage to break my hymen throughout the whole time we were dating. I had that shocking experience with one of his friends after we broke up.

But throughout a good three or four months in college, I was firmly convinced I was pregnant with his child. That time I had skipped my period for three months. My ex and I had just broken up, and I was scared I was going to have to let him back into my life again in order to have this baby. The man who had raped me. The man who had told me that his deepest, most private fantasy was to role play with him as my baby sitter, me in diapers, and that he'd have to 'clean' me up because I was 'dirty.' I was justifiably horrified at this man having anything to do with a small, helpless baby.

Back then, I wanted to be a mother so badly it hurt sometimes. I tried to do the very best for the child I thought I was growing. I stayed up nights, terrified I was going to roll over on my stomach and hurt it. I woke up twice to find that I had unconsciously found my favorite sleeping position while I was passed out, and I'd apologize to my tummy for hours before falling asleep again pressed against the wall for security.

I ate the best I ever did in my life. Everything was healthy. I didn't engage in any risky activities, or lift anything heavy. I wouldn't rest my belly against anything. I stopped swearing, determined that if I was going to be a mom, I was going to be a good one right from the start. And late at night I'd sing to my belly and rub it gently as I fell asleep.

I put off taking a test for the longest time because of two reasons. I was so insanely happy with the fact that I might be a mother that I didn't want to break my heart if it came back negative. And I was so impossibly scared that I would be aborting it if the test was positive. There was no way I could have this child, not when I couldn't trust the father farther than I could throw him. If I couldn't trust him to respect my body when I said no, with him not even understanding that he had just raped me, how could I expect him to control his perverted child fantasy around a beautiful baby who has no defenses whatsoever?

That was around the time when I had reached out to my then-future boyfriend and asked him back into my life. And I spilled out my predicament to him. He stepped up to the plate and then some. He was my guide, my pillar of support. He said that no matter what I chose, he'd be right beside me. He even offered to replace my ex as father.

But at that point there was no getting around it. My ex already knew due to me telling him in desperation that I might be pregnant. I wasn't even thinking of any consequences at the time. And so I couldn't just replace him as father, as much as I wanted to.

I waited and waited and waited. Then finally I took a pregnancy test. My future boyfriend was outside the bathroom the whole time, having come up to my college with the test in tow. I couldn't look at it. I had him read it, but not tell me anything yet. We went back to the old abandoned stairwell we had messed around in, and I cried in his arms for hours. I cried because it could be positive and I'd have to give my baby up. I cried because it could be negative, and I'd not have the chance to be a mother.

And then I asked. It was negative. I cried until I had no more tears to give. And he was with me every step of the way.

Now I'm in the exact opposite situation. To settle my mind over the strange symptoms I was having, I bravely took a test on my own, pacing in the stall of a restaurant's bathroom until the results showed up. Two pink lines. I dropped the indicator in horror. With shaking hands, I picked it back up, squinted at it, reread the instructions on the box. All signs pointed to pregnant.

I took three other tests that day, praying that the test was faulty, that somehow I was getting a false positive. All showed the two pink lines, mocking me with their finality.

I don't want kids. I haven't wanted kids for years now. I hate them. And now I have one stuck inside me.

I don't even know what to do anymore. My life is crumbling around me, and all I can do is sit back and watch. It's horrifying to know that a living being is growing inside me. And I can't even tell anyone about it because I'm terrified that the father is going to find out about it. I can't face him right now. I don't know if I can face him ever again. I'm so lost and confused, without a soul in the world to stand by me. I'm all alone.

Except for the baby.


	6. Chapter 6

I've tried to do the calculations and see how far along I am. I figure I'm just about a month and a half in. And after heavily researching, I estimate I'll finally start showing in two months. I have only two terrifying months to figure out a plan.

If I'm anywhere near lucky, I'll be able to buy an extra month or two. Thankfully I'm soft around the middle, so a little extra weight won't be noticeable. And I've already started wearing concealing clothing so that it won't come out of nowhere and be conspicuous.

But it's miserable. If I'm not getting sick over nothing at all, I'm having the worst mood swings. I can start out the most benevolent and docile thing in the morning, only to have me morph halfway through the day into an uncontrollable rage monster, and at the end of the night I'm weeping from the slightest provocation. Occasionally it mixes up the order, just for fun. It's a nightmare trying to get a handle on it and not let anyone figure it out. Because there's only so many times I can blame it on 'that time of the month.'

I've begun to think that I broke up with my boyfriend due to the pregnancy hormones. I was so angry and jealous, and that's not normal for me. So this damn baby's managed to ruin me. And I'm far too proud to come crawling back to him. It's killing me, among other things.

Another fun development is increasing dizziness. I'll just be walking along and feel the floor tilt underneath me and get so lightheaded. Not to mention the tiredness. Even when I get a good night's sleep, I forever feel exhausted. This damn intruder is running me ragged.

I refuse to think of it as anything more than a parasite. It's in me, stealing from my life, and I don't want it. I've been trying to think of ways to get rid of it. Starving would be a good idea, if it wasn't already refusing my body to eat.

I can't possibly get an abortion. One, I can't afford it, and two, if my ex ever found out about it he wouldn't have anything to do with me anymore. I've got a glimmer of hope that maybe one day he'll say he's sorry and that he wants me back in his life, but if I kill his child on purpose…

No, it's got to be an 'accident.' Ever since I read that lifting heavy objects helps miscarriages, I've been doubling the amount of weight I normally carry. And overexerting yourself with exercise has been known to help, too. A handy excuse would be that I'm trying to get a bikini body for summer. Either way, it's got to go.

I refuse to be a mother. I will not ruin my life like I've seen so many others do. I am not a statistic. I will not be responsible for something I never wanted in the first place. I'm going to find a way to eject it, even if I have to go fishing in there with a hanger, so help me.


	7. Chapter 7

Life is so much hell right now. Parasite thinks it's super fun to give me just the right amount of nurturing, motherly moods so that I'm starting to care for it better. And to be quite honest, trying to fight the cravings only works for so long, anyways. If Parasite wants tomatoes, Parasite usually gets tomatoes within the week.

Ugh, I've even named it. Even though it's a ridiculously demeaning and hateful one, it's achieved enough bonding to be worthy of a name. I'm growing increasingly worried that one, I won't be able to expel it, and two, it'll eventually turn my emotions against me to actually like the thing.

And I've tried everything. Everything on hand at the moment, at least. Scalding baths, playing rough sports, abrasive abdomen rubbing, taking an insane amount of vitamin C, even 'tripping' down my basement stairs about a week ago. All I got for that one was a bruised hand and hip, which luckily I could pass off as sports injuries from earlier that day. Still no luck.

Today marks what my best estimates have gathered to be the second month of my pregnancy. I've set a goal to get it out by the fourth, through whatever methods. I keep researching and researching anything that might give the slightest chance of aborting it. And I'm starting to run out of the safer options.


End file.
